


Ganymede In Red, Green, Gold

by kuonji



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, DCU - Comicverse, Superman/Batman (Comics)
Genre: Absolute Power universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Family, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-28 22:56:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuonji/pseuds/kuonji
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Bruce has a thing for orphans.  Especially dark-haired, light-eyed boys.  That's about as far as Clark is sure of.  This isn't how it's usually done.  Bruce has always chosen his boys himself.  Each individual case is different, but Clark hopes he can tempt Bruce this time.  It's been a while since he's gotten Bruce a present.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Abduction

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on the first alternate timestream presented in the Absolute Power story arc, Superman/Batman #14-18.
> 
> Alternative Links:  
> <http://kuonji14.livejournal.com/tag/series%3A%20ganymede>

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Bruce has a thing for orphans. Especially dark-haired, light-eyed boys. That's about as far as Clark is sure of. This isn't how it's usually done. Bruce has always chosen his boys himself. Each individual case is different, but Clark hopes he can tempt Bruce this time. It's been a while since he's gotten Bruce a present._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative Links:  
> <http://kuonji14.livejournal.com/55234.html>

Clark is on his way to visit Bruce when he hears an outcry from a large crowd of people. A split-second after the first collection of voices, he hears the crunch and thud of bodies hitting the ground, followed by panicked screams. Frowning, he diverts his route to the source of the sounds -- a big top circus laid out on the outskirts of Trenton.

Peering through the reinforced canvas tent walls, he sees that the source of the commotion is two bodies lying in the center ring. Their shining, skin-tight clothing and the dangling trapeze setup above them tells the story of how they died. An accident. Unfortunate, but not within his purview.

He's about to leave when he notices the boy.

Short, compactly muscled, and dressed in the same red, green, and gold as the fallen couple, he looks to have been part of the troupe. Clark watches as he falls to his knees beside the couple and reaches shaking hands to touch them.

"no no no no no..." Clark hears him whisper. It's a heart-breaking sight. Clark and Bruce do their best to prevent crime and violence, but they can't prevent the other everyday accidents that cause injuries and take lives.

Clark's glad sometimes that he doesn't remember his own parents. They don't talk about it, but he knows that Bruce still remembers the night his birth parents were murdered in front of him. The memory continues to drive him, even though he has a new family now with Clark and Mother and Father and Father.

Clark lingers for a moment, watching as a cluster of scantily dressed performers and one man in rough work clothes surround the boy and bear him away from the scene of the tragedy. The man removes his large coat and drapes it over the boy's shoulders.

"It's going to be all right, son."

"We're here for you, honey."

"I think he's in shock."

"Jesus, who isn't?"

"Come here, Dickie, we'll get you something warm to drink."

"Someone call an ambulance and get the rubes outta here, fergodsake!"

The boy looks up at the adults surrounding him, and the angle allows Clark to view his face. His eyes are wide and blank with shock, but Clark notes their color -- a perfect sapphire blue. The observation sparks an idea, and Clark catalogs the boy's features: dark hair, small pert nose, well-shaped cheekbones, trim body. Even though Clark has always preferred women himself, even he can see the appeal of this kid. The boy is almost obscenely pretty. Maybe his stop here needn't be fruitless after all.

In the blink of a normal human's eye, he's swept down and in through the tent entrance, then out again with the boy in his arms.

He hears the confused shouts of the crowd over the whistling sound of air hastily filling in the path he had speared through it. He'd flown much slower on the way out, not wanting to make the boy sick, but still fast enough that no one would have seen anything more than a red and blue blur. The people will know from that what had taken the boy.

Speaking of whom...

"Y-You're Superman!" the boy exclaims. Gasping, he grabs hold of Clark's cape at the shoulder with one hand, and Clark's wrist with the other. "We're _flying_!" he squeaks. He cranes his neck around, staring at the houses, trees, and crop fields zooming past beneath them, quickly giving way to roads and high-rises.

"That's right." He banks and slows somewhat as they near their destination. "I'm taking you to meet someone."

The boy whips around to stare at him. "You mean...? _He_ wants me?"

Clark doesn't provide an answer, and the boy doesn't try to get one, apparently content with assuming that he is not to be informed.

Bruce has a thing for orphans. Especially dark-haired, light-eyed boys. That's about as far as Clark is sure of. This isn't how it's usually done. Bruce has always chosen his boys himself. Each individual case is different, but Clark hopes he can tempt Bruce this time.

It's been a while since he's gotten Bruce a present.

***

He enters through the open skylight of the entrance hall as usual, and he stands the boy in the center, equidistant from the walls. Bruce would appreciate the nod towards security.

"Put your hands together," he instructs the boy, who obeys immediately, squeezing his fingers so tight that the contact points on his flesh go white. "Now don't move from this spot, understand?"

The boy nods. His breath catches and doesn't continue.

Clark doesn't let his amusement show until after he's flown out of the room. Once out of sight, however, he turns back to watch the boy through the wall. After a few moments, the boy exhales explosively. His eyes dart around the room, but otherwise he remains absolutely still, not even daring to turn his head. Smiling to himself, Clark goes to get Bruce.

He finds the man in his lab, studying a sheet of notepaper with an eyedropper of some chemical in one hand and a flashlight shining infrared light in the other. He's in his uniform. Perfect.

"Clark," he greets without turning around, as usual.

"Bruce. I brought you a present."

"Oh?"

"I picked him up from inland, just a few hundred miles from here."

Bruce puts down his tools and looks at Clark. "'Him'?"

"It's a boy. An orphan. His parents just died in an accident. I heard the noise and went to investigate and I saw him there. I thought, you haven't had a boy in a while. Here's one you might like."

"So you picked him up for me like some sort of puppy?"

"Uh, kind of?" Even with all his power, he still finds himself occasionally stumbling like a fool in front of Bruce. To tell the truth, that's one of the reasons he likes being with the man.

"Where is he now?"

Clark sweeps his vision back to the room where he'd left the boy. "He's still in the public chamber where I left him. He's very obedient, hasn't moved an inch."

"Great. So take him back now."

"He's already here. You might as well take a look at him. He's beautiful, just your type, I promise."

Bruce sighs, putting down the piece of paper he had just picked up again. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "I don't have time for this right now."

Clark glances at the paper, focusing his vision. "Stock paper, printed on the West coast, according to the watermark. Acid-free. Custom impression. The Hideaway is an exclusive resort in Maryland. Ink is fairly common. If you show me a pen from the resort, I bet it'll match."

"That's not--"

"Most recent notes were phone numbers and directions to nearby tourist spots, nothing unusual or suspicious. Traces of cleaning solution all along the edge. Probably sat on a tabletop for a long time. No solar radiation damage, though. And yes, there's blood. Misting pattern points to a blunt instrument. Not enough to tell if drugs were involved. _Now_ will you come with me?"

"Damn it, Clark, you can't just sweep in here with some _stray_ and expect me to be appreciative of it."

"He watched his parents die right in front of him not ten minutes ago."

Bruce scowls. He knows full well that Clark is attempting -- if clumsily, compared to Bruce -- to manipulate him. Finally, his shoulders slump slightly. "Fine, I'll have the staff make the usual arrangements and then send him home. Now will you leave me alone?" Better, but not quite a victory.

"Don't you want to meet him? Maybe... you know, have a little fun."

"Clark!"

"You're so gloomy lately." Clark knows he's pouting. He can do that with Bruce.

Clark sees Bruce roll his eyes under his cowl. "I'm 'gloomy' all the time. I'm the Batman."

"You know what I mean. You aren't... happy. Selina isn't making you happy."

"You think sex will cure everything."

Clark chuckles. "Nothing can cure _your_ attitude, but sex might help."

Again, the eyeroll.

"All right, the sooner I do this the sooner I can get back to work." Bruce rises in a huff (though Clark wouldn't describe it that way to his face) and prowls in full Dark Knight mode to the front entrance, Clark following.

When they enter, the boy utters a sharp yelp before clamping his mouth shut. He stares at Bruce with rounded eyes.

Bruce, for his part, stops dead just inside the entrance and crosses his arms, forcing Clark to sidle around him.

"For god's sake, Superman. Where'd you find him, nursery school?" The boy flinches and looks upset.

Clark feels suddenly embarrassed on both the boy's and his own behalf. He knows Bruce is exaggerating, but he does worry at the judgment. He has no experience with children. He's had very little contact with people outside of his family, and their parents remain much the same year by year, so he's never been very good at estimating human ages. It's hard to judge from Bruce, since he's older than Clark. Lois, too, he met as an adult.

As far as he knows, Bruce picks up boys of any age under twenty or so, but he only plays with the teenagers and older. It had been Clark's intention to get Bruce a _gift_ , not a scholarship recipient.

Bruce shoots Clark a scowl and Clark can only return a look of chagrin. "Maybe he's just short for his age," he excuses himself quickly, hoping he's right about that.

"I'm a trapeze artist," the boy interjects with surprising boldness. "We're all kind of short. It's not anything wrong. It makes us better at what we do."

This defensive flurry of words seems to catch Bruce's attention. His gaze grows intent, causing the boy to blink rapidly and lick his lips. Then, amazingly, Bruce smiles. It's only a sliver, of course, the barest tightening of one corner of his mouth.

The boy must catch the small gesture, however, because he relaxes and smiles back.

"That certainly explains the outfit," Bruce drawls.

"What's wrong with my outfit?" the boy demands, at the same time as Clark expresses the same sentiment. He thinks the shimmery red and green and the bright gold lining rather festive.

Bruce gives him a flat glare. "Nothing, apparently, if you're _colorblind_ , despite being able to see in ultraviolet and infrared."

The boy turns an awed expression to Clark. "You can do that? Really?"

Clark doesn't miss how this causes Bruce to frown infinitesimally.

"Superman can do a lot of party tricks," he answers for Clark. "Like bend steel, pick up trains, and destroy anyone who gets out of line. You ever see Superman deal with rebels?"

Dutifully, the boy shakes his head.

"That doesn't matter, because it's nothing compared to what _I_ do."

The boy looks suitably impressed. "We would never break the Rules, sir. The whole circus obeys. Pop Haly always makes sure of it."

"Hm," is Bruce's only answer, but Clark can see that he's pleased.

"There, now," Clark interjects. "With a self-recommendation like that, how could you refuse?"

"How old _are_ you?" Bruce snaps, purposely ignoring him. It's Clark's turn to roll his eyes.

The boy straightens as far as his small frame will allow. "I'm old enough for whatever you want," he states stoutly.

Bruce glowers. "Give me a number, kid."

The boy looks briefly intimidated under the weight of the Batman's interrogation. He rallies quickly, however. "I'm thirteen next month."

"Have you ever had an erection?"

The boy gapes, and his face goes red. Clark thinks it's adorable. He hopes Bruce agrees. "Uh? I-- I--"

"It's a simple question."

"Y-Yes, sir." The boy is now crimson. Clark wonders if he still has feeling in his hands, considering how tightly he's still clenching them together.

"Have you ever masturbated?"

"...yes."

"Hm." Bruce looks the boy up and down very deliberately. "Wynston." He speaks in a normal voice, but a moment later, his valet appears and bows from the waist.

"Sir?"

"Take this boy to the guest room. Usual arrangements."

"Yes, sir."

With that, Bruce leaves, swirling his dark cape behind him. It's a good sign if Bruce is going to the trouble of being dramatic. Clark hurries to follow him.

"I was right, wasn't I?" he boasts, once they're out of earshot of the entrance hall. "You like him."

Bruce grunts gruffly, but he's got that tiny smirk again. "We'll see."

***  
***

  
_END Part 1._


	2. God-Touched

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _God-touched. It's not a term that he's ever thought would be attached to himself. It's for stories about other people. Legends. So sensational they're just shy of an urban myth. Dick should know. As a travelling circus brat, Dick has heard all the best stories._   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative Links:  
> <http://kuonji14.livejournal.com/55394.html>

"Come with me," the man in the pin-striped trousers and the crisp black coat says.

Dick startles from watching Batman and Superman leave. Part of him -- a pretty _big_ part -- still can't believe he's here. He thinks he's going to wake up any moment now. He couldn't possibly have been carried in Superman's arms. He couldn't possibly have talked directly to the Batman. He couldn't possibly be about to share the Batman's bed -- even if everything in the two awe-inspiring figures' conversation seemed to point that way.

God-touched.

It's not a term that he's ever thought would be attached to himself. It's for stories about other people. Legends. So sensational they're just shy of an urban myth. Dick should know. As a travelling circus brat, Dick has heard all the _best_ stories.

"You can take your hands apart now."

Glancing down, Dick does so, slowly. Feeling returns to his fingers in pins and needles. Coherent thoughts seem to be trickling back into his brain in the same way.

"Excuse me," he ventures to say, only slightly less timid with the severely precise man as he had been with the two all-powerful beings who watch over Earth together. The man doesn't slow, but he does turn and raise an eyebrow at Dick.

"Yes, young sir?"

No one's ever called him 'sir' before, 'young' or otherwise.

"Am I--? Will the Batman--" He's stymied for a verb that is not vulgar. He instinctively knows that would not be welcome here. The man's already turned away again before Dick remembers the stories of knights and romances with their lady loves in the book his mother reads him. He doesn't feel it's _exactly_ inappropriate. He's no royalty or gentry, but Batman certainly is. Tentatively, he asks, "Will he bed me?"

He gets the eyebrow again. "The Master will do as he sees fit."

"So, he might not?" Disappointment hits heavy and hard. It only happens a few times a year, he knows, and not all of the incidents are publicized, but all the stories agree that to lose one's virgin-hood to the Bat is one of the most magical, exciting, and envied things that can happen to a young man. He's old enough. He has to be. Batman had _smiled_ at him.

The man does not answer. Instead, he asks, "What is your name?"

"Huh? Um. I'm Dick."

"Your full legal name, please."

"Richard. Richard John Grayson. Sir."

"Date and location of birth?"

Dick tells him, feeling somewhat defensive as he gives the city and state he's been taught to carefully memorize. Being born on the side of a road had always seemed adventurous and romantic when he was with his fellow circus folk or talking to the townies, but in this pristine hall, he feels like a vagabond urchin.

The man merely nods in acknowledgement.

They reach a set of double doors, which the man pushes open. Dick follows inside to a high-ceilinged bedroom, tastefully decorated in light, airy whites. It's rather like a bridal chamber, Dick realizes with equal parts chagrin and hope. The man turns to look at him for the first time since he first appeared. His expression is excessively impersonal.

"We will locate you in the databases now. When you return, you will find an account opened in your name at The Bank with five hundred thousand dollars in funds. An advisor will contact you and give you suggestions on how to manage it. However, you may do as you like with the funds, including spend it all at once. These monies are completely tax-free and not transferable upon your death. Should you encounter any difficulties, or if anyone attempts to take these funds from you by coercion, fraud, or force, call this number and give your name and today's date." He hands Dick a card, blank except for a phone number.

A _phone number_. The banality of it all blows Dick's mind.

This man had somehow managed to reduce the most astounding, inspiring, titillating story of the modern age into legal gobbledygook. Dick hopes his eyes haven't glazed over. He's pretty sure that is inexcusably rude -- something he can't be in Batman's house. "Yes, sir," he mumbles, taking the card.

The pressed and dried man directs Dick to a bathroom that Dick can't stop himself from gaping at once he's inside. It's about the size of his parents' entire trailer.

"I assume you know how to use the facilities. Clean yourself up thoroughly. You will wear this." He presents Dick with a thick black robe with Batman's symbol embroidered on the left breast in bright searchlight yellow. "As to your earlier question, I am not privy to the Master's thoughts. However, I imagine an attention to hygiene and an accommodating attitude cannot go amiss."

Dick almost misses the veiled advice -- if that's what it is. By the time he thinks to stammer his thanks, the man has gone with silent efficiency.

He strips down quickly but isn't sure where to stack his uniform. It goes, finally, on the edge of the vast countertop, the card tucked inside. Then it's into the shower, where it takes him a few moments to figure out how the water spouts work. There's six different nozzles, and it's like standing in a warm thunderstorm. It makes Dick laugh as he turns around with his arms raised above his head, feeling the streams trickle down his body.

His friends back at the circus are going to scream when he gets back and tells them all about this.

The thought that his parents won't be there with them sobers him. All of the god-touched are orphans. It doesn't make up for their loss, but it helps a little to know someone's watching over them.

Dick's mom had always taught him that while Batman is a vicious demon to the wicked, to the innocent, he is a fiercely protective dark angel. He and Superman don't ask for tribute or servants. All they ask for is obedience. It's an easy price to pay for peace. Back when Dick was just a baby, everyone tells him, the circuses were often victims of attacks and prejudice. After the two Guardians came to power, all that violence almost disappeared overnight.

The circus obeys, Pop Haly says, and it's grateful.

Dick reaches for the soap. The man had said to wash himself thoroughly, and that's what he's going to do. He's not going to disappoint the Dark Knight. He's not going to let down everyone back home. He's going to make his parents proud.

He smells like honey and vanilla when he's done, and his skin feels weirdly soft all over. He gasps when he pulls a folded towel out of the bin beside the shower stall. It's big enough to completely engulf him, and it's warm. The fluffy fabric draws moisture away from his skin without him even having to wipe himself dry. A corner of it serves to towel-dry his hair as well, since he's somewhat dubious about the half-domed contraption mounted on the wall that he _thinks_ is a hair dryer.

By the time he pulls on the luxuriously soft black robe, Dick feels like he's been through an intense make-up and fitting session. It's that same mix of pampered and relaxed, with excitement and nerves.

In fact, he barely holds in a surprised squeak when he re-enters the room.

The bed's turned down. Batman stands beside it, absolutely still, waiting. That is, if a statue could be said to be waiting. Amidst the white sheets and curtains and the thick beige carpet, the black-draped figure looks almost like a hole cut out in space.

Swallowing nervously, Dick approaches him.

"Stop," Batman says, once Dick reaches the head of the bed. They're about two yards apart. Dick can see the rise and fall of that broad chest. It's startling to notice a deity do anything as mundane as breathing.

"Take off your robe."

Dick complies, dropping the just-donned robe behind him. Out of habit, he gives it a little flick off the shoulders like he always does to his cape before climbing the ladder to the platform. The heavy fabric doesn't flare the same way, of course, and instead of floating to the ground in a soft whisper, heavy cotton hits the carpet with an audible plop. There's an awkward beat where Dick thinks he'll combust from embarrassment.

Batman doesn't seem to notice, however. He looks Dick up and down in a way that makes it absolutely impossible to forget that Dick is completely naked in front of him. Despite the Dark Knight's grim visage, Dick isn't scared. He is, however, horribly anxious to please. Dick hopes, he prays that he's good enough. He wants _so much_ to be worthy. To have this. Nothing will make up for his parents, but if he could be touched by a god... Well. It would help.

Batman's mouth lifts in a sardonic smile. It's the same barely there expression Dick saw before, mysterious and perfect in its obscurity. Dick finds himself smiling back again. "I guess you are mature for your age after all."

The comment makes Dick blush furiously. He fights the urge to cover himself. Batman hasn't given him permission to move yet.

The smile disappears. "On the bed, face up."

Letting go of his held breath with relief, he scrambles to obey. The bed is huge and higher than Dick's used to, but nothing that he can't handle with a two-step running start and a spring. He thinks he hears a grunt from Batman as he does so. Once atop the surprisingly firm but springy mattress, he turns quickly on his back and arranges himself. He's taking quick, audible breaths that he can't control.

Batman approaches, and Dick squeezes his eyes shut -- only to pop them open again the next moment. This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance. He doesn't want to miss a second of it. He stares in awe as the tall, dark figure reaches out. He's aware, suddenly, that he's demonstrating that he is, in fact, old enough to have an erection. The thought makes him blush even more fervently, and he whimpers when Batman's hand makes contact with his ankle.

The gauntlet is rough on his skin. It slides up the inside of Dick's thigh, then back out and up his quivering belly and heaving chest, ending at the hollow of his throat. The rough material catches at him, teasing. Batman slides his hand down again until, with a single finger, he traces down the center of Dick's quivering yearning. Dick chokes back a cry, half-frightened, half-embarrassed, and very, very aroused. He snags tight handfuls of the sheets to keep himself from moving. He doesn't dare to without permission, and it's completely beyond question to ask.

Batman raises his head from watching his work, and his eye-less gaze locks on Dick's face. "Are you a virgin?" he asks.

Somehow, he finds his voice to answer: "Yes, sir."

"What do you know about sex?"

He's getting used to the questions now. It's like hanging out around the fire after hours with Danny and the other roustabouts. They'd tease him and try to stump him with lewd jokes, half of which he didn't understand -- but only half. They'd always told him that if he was old enough to ask about something he was old enough to hear about it. Dick had a feeling that his parents might not feel the same way, but they'd never expressly forbade him to talk about sex with the guys, and it isn't one of the Rules. Superman and Batman don't care about things like that.

Over the years, Dick had spent countless hours hearing all sorts of interesting things in the secret half-dark before sneaking back home to frantically pull his shorts down, his face muffled into his pillow to keep from waking his parents.

"I know quite a lot, actually," he returns cheekily. He's chagrined a moment later at the lack of respect he had shown, but Batman merely hmms in acknowledgement.

"You said that you masturbate. How many times a week?"

"Three? Maybe five." Is that too many? Too few? Does Batman like a pure virgin? Does he enjoy a more experienced partner? What if Dick says something to disgust him, after having come this far. He doesn't think he could stand it.

Batman's single finger doesn't stop moving slowly up and down. His expression doesn't change. "Show me," he says.

Dick lets out an explosive gasp. "I-- Are you sure?" Of course he's sure. He's the _Batman_. He wouldn't say something unless he was sure. "I mean, I don't-- Oh!" The gauntlet-clad hand wraps around him and pumps up and down once. Dick thinks he's going to _die_. Then fingers tighten around the tip and-- Dick shudders. The sharp bite of pain is there and gone. More importantly, the unstoppable, quivering need has eased -- just slightly, but enough. "What did you do?"

"Show me," is all the dark god replies.

Feeling self-conscious, Dick wraps his right hand around himself (after wrenching it out of the tangle of sheets his fingers had been spasmed around). He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to remember what he usually thinks about when he's in his cot at night, but it's impossible to concentrate because Batman is watching him so intensely he can practically feel it on his skin.

It barely takes ten seconds.

Dick turns his head to the side, away from Batman's gaze. Danny had been very specific. A man should be able to go all night long. He had to satisfy his woman -- multiple times -- before taking his own satisfaction in order to be considered a competent lover. He's a complete failure, so obviously inadequate.

Batman-- laughs.

Dick peeks up, astounded. It's a soft rasping chuckle, a mere extension of Batman's gravelly voice. It's _captivating_ , like watching Bert catch that fourteenth pin and spin it up into the air like the rest before it, so easy that it's almost impossible to appreciate fully.

"You were very _excited_. What were you thinking about?"

Dick opens and closes his mouth and stammers helplessly. It feels practically blasphemous to voice his thoughts, but no one lies to the Batman. He finally answers, wincing, "You."

"Me?"

"Asking, um, wanting me to... touch you." Those filmed white lenses somehow manage to convey a level of scrutiny that makes Dick squirm. Who is he to talk about Batman that way, as if he were just another man? Worse, a man who would _ask_ instead of _command_ Dick to bring him pleasure. A man who might _need_ Dick for anything at all? "I'm sorry."

"Give me your hand."

He complies immediately. Be it cut off or mangled, he doesn't have the right to prevent it. He's aware that he is trembling with trepidation.

When Batman touches him, however, Dick suddenly feels something he hadn't expected at all. With his hand encased in that large one, he feels... safe. All his nervousness melts away.

"Batman?" he breathes, staring at their two hands together.

Batman raises Dick's hand to his own cheek. Holding his breath, Dick boldly strokes the bare skin there. It's warm and rough. This is the face of justice, of glorious battles and matchless power. Dick feels himself shivering, and he can't stop.

His dark god smiles down at him. "You like this?" he asks.

"Yes." He gulps, and hastily adds, "Sir."

"I think you'll like this better." Unbelievably, Batman takes his index finger in his mouth. It's warm, and it's wet, and it should be disgusting, except it completely isn't. 

Dick utters a word that his parents wouldn't approve of, if they'd heard. But in the same way that it conveys frustration and distress when one of the animals is acting up or when the weather ruins the carnival booths' custom, it seems to convey the overwhelming sensations that Dick is experiencing right now.

Batman doesn't stop at Dick's index finger. Each one is treated to the same sensations, and Dick's palm and wrist are next. Squirming, he tries valiantly to stay still when Batman follows the sensitive path up the inside of his arm. He's trembles, breathless, when those otherworldly lips travel over his chest, his sternum, his belly, his--

More expressions are uttered, ones that Dick's learned from watching the crew set up and strike the tents, dropped hammers and broken winches and clogging mud all spurring Dick's education in the language of hyperbolic exclamation.

"I didn't think elephants were that flexible," Batman remarks. Dick laughs before he can appreciate the wonder of the dread Batman showing a sense of humor. There's a muted squeal of fabric and leather, and Dick's mirth fades abruptly as he watches Batman pull off his right gauntlet. The Dark Knights sleeves extend skintight to his wrists, but the hand revealed is bare. He can't help but jerk when Batman lays that hand on his arm.

Not even the roustabouts' most elaborate words can serve here. All Dick can do is to gasp in wonder.

Batman pauses, and his blank white eyes regard Dick with what Dick thinks is a question.

"You're _real_ ," Dick answers. Suddenly bold in this unreal space, he reaches out and takes Batman's hand in both his own. Even with the evidence of a second before, he expects the hand to be fiery to the touch, or perhaps insubstantial to his mortal hold. But the hand is just a hand. Large. Lightly haired. It's callused in a way that Dick is familiar with. He traces the hardened flesh at the base of the fingers, and the corresponding ridges between the bottom and middle knuckles. Marks from grasping, from holding your own body weight and more every day for years. Dick raises the hand to his face and sniffs, almost expecting talcum powder and sawdust.

There's only sweat. And leather mixed with an artificial scent, both deeply ingrained in Batman's skin.

The tears catch Dick by surprise.

His mother and father lie in the sawdust, their bodies twisted and unfamiliar. Their hands are cold.

He turns his face to the pillow, confused and ashamed by his outburst. He isn't representing the citizens of the world very well at all. Will Batman judge the circus -- Dick's only friends and family now -- by his behavior? Will he punish them?

Dick has obeyed all his life. He's done _more_ than just obey. His parents had taught him to admire and to honor. He must not fail now.

"I-- I'm so--" He swallows. "I'm sorry," he says. He forces his eyes back to Batman's face.

The dark angel watches him, silent and unmoving. Almost, he doesn't seem to breathe. With effort, though, Dick is again able to discern the slight rise and fall of his chest under the armored covering, and it's comforting when he does.

A movement next to him startles Dick. But it's only Batman's hand, and he relaxes. He closes his eyes briefly when Batman's fingers touch his cheek, then slide up to cradle his face, catching the tears before they reach Dick's temples. "It's all right to cry," Batman says, his gravelly voice sounding gentle to Dick's ear. "You'll cry for a long time. But then it will get better."

"When?" Dick asks. "It... hurts so much. I don't know what to do."

"It _will_ get better. Trust me."

Dick thinks he should say 'yes' or 'okay', but he can't.

Another whisper of movement, and then--

He's-- It's a kiss. It's a _French_ kiss. Dick gasps and twitches under the weight of Batman's wide body. His flailing hands find purchase, one in Batman's cape, the other in the sheets. He hangs out for dear life as Batman-- devours him from the inside.

Dick doesn't think it's possible for him to blush anymore, but he gives it a try, all thoughts of his parents fleeing his mind. He's only ever dared to imagine French kissing a girl when he's in the darkness of the trailer at night, after his parents have fallen asleep. His most fanciful imaginings had never come close to this. He feels like he is on fire.

And then-- oh! _Oh!_

He shudders, amazed and embarrassed all at once. His hips push upwards all on their own. Batman's armor is cool and firm and just slightly painful to thrust against, but then he's engulfed in a warm, damp hand. The sensations are overwhelming. Dick's dizzy and frantic, restless, _desperate_. He makes strangled sounds that Batman swallows down. He struggles and wriggles but Batman pins him with his enormous weight.

His one coherent thought is, Batman knows what he wants. Batman knows everything. The dark god touches Dick exactly the way he hadn't realized he'd needed. The taste and smell and weight of him drives Dick out of his mind until he jerks and shouts, nearly sobbing with the feeling of relief and exquisite release. Unthinking, he throws his arms around those armored shoulders, clutches handfuls of the heavy cape -- and holds on.

He doesn't know how long he hides himself beneath the blackness. He's conscious of Batman breathing against him. He envisions the steady movement of Batman's breath, the roughness of his cheek, the warmth of his bare hand. When Batman starts to move away, Dick whines in protest and holds on tighter. He doesn't stop to think about the audacity of that, because Batman responds by staying where he is. Callused fingers stroke Dick's face.

"You..." The voice is hoarse. When Dick pulls back slightly to look up, Batman's staring at him with those unblinking white eyes. He shakes his cowled head. "I'm glad Superman found you."

"Will I see you again?" It's a child's question, but lassitude and a quiet contentment have leached all the shame out of Dick.

"I doubt it."

"Oh. I'll miss you."

Batman considers him. "This will be a special memory."

"No, I mean, I'll _miss_ you."

Again, the Dark Knight falls into a studying silence. For the space of time it takes for Dick's mother to swing across the expanse of air and light to the opposite platform, raise her arm for applause, and return, Batman is perfectly still. Then he reaches up -- and peels back the covering over his face.

Dick gasps in shock, suddenly very much awake. He watches in wonder as leather and armor pull back, shed like a skin -- like the bear hide that covers the true form of the prince.

Batman's eyes aren't at all the glowing red or depthless black that Dick had always imagined. They're an icy blue. And his eyebrows are bushy, and his nose is straight and high, and his hair is uncompromisingly straight. Without thinking, he raises one hand to touch those jet-black strands, spiked with sweat.

Dick's very aware that he's looking upon the face of a god.

Yet, suddenly, he's also very aware that he's looking upon the face of a man, or at least an excellent imitation of one.

And Batman is _beautiful_.

The man-behind-the-god laughs. It even sounds different from Batman's. It's still deep and coarse, but it's somehow richer. "I don't think anyone other than my mother has called me that before." 

Realizing that he'd spoken his thought out loud, Dick stammers, "I-- I'm sorry. I didn't--"

Batman shushes him with a finger over Dick's lips. He strokes his fingers through Dick's hair. "It's all right."

"Thank you."

A kiss to Dick's cheek. It feels completely unlike the others. Instead of burning Dick's skin, it warms him from the inside. Shifting, Batman pulls a cool comforter over Dick's body. "Sleep."

It's not an order. Dick knows that. But he's tired and emotionally wrung out, and most importantly, he feels... _right_. It's as if, in some unimaginable way, this is as things should be. Batman continues to stroke his hair with warm, human fingers. He is a solid, dark presence at Dick's side, watching over him. Before Dick knows it, he's lost in slumber.

***

In his dreams, the circus is in full swing. The animals cavort and stamp. The charivari's a whirl of laughing color. A red and blue blur flies around and around the top of the tent, causing a tornado. People are whipped into the air with the gale.

His father checks the lines. He's the only one standing still.

"We're on, honey," his mother urges, gesturing him towards a dark trailer. He hears Pop Haly shouting at someone inside.

"Without benefit of a net!" Pop Haly announces. "I won't pay!"

His mother re-checks the lines after his father does. It's important. "Don't ever forget it, Robin. Before and after every performance and practice."

"Obey, Dick," his father admonishes. His mouth doesn't move, because all his bones are broken, and there's blood all over him.

A large man in a green coat wipes his face with a handkerchief. He scowls under the spotlights as he steps over Dick's parents on the ground. "You'll be sorry," he mutters, staring straight at Dick. "Accidents happen in a place like this."

Accidents happen.

***

Dick wakes in a panic. "Mom! Dad!" he screams.

It takes him a long time to remember where he is. As soon as he does, however, he fights his way out of the covers, rolls off the enormous bed, and wraps the fallen robe back around him. He runs to the door and, when he finds it locked, he bangs on it urgently. "Let me out!" he shouts. "Let me out! I have to see Batman!"

***  
***

  
_END Part 2._


	3. As They Should Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Taking another life is traumatizing. It's frightening. It hurts. And yet it thrills as well. It is the most primal show of power one living being has over another. In order to preserve life for all, it is necessary to take the lives of some. Dick must learn this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative Links:  
> <http://kuonji14.livejournal.com/55558.html>

Bruce is first made aware of the situation when his concentration is broken by the blaring noise of the internal intruder alarm.

Pressing the intercom, he snaps, "Report."

"It's the boy, sir," the on-duty officer replies crisply. "He was caught trying to escape from the room."

Frowning, Bruce rises from in front of his monitors and stalks quickly out and up the stairs. He can hear the commotion as he nears the double doors that lead into the guest room. He shrugs his cape into the proper fit before slamming inside. The ends of his cape flare out, black and smothering, before settling amidst dry susurrations back around him.

"What," he intones, "is happening here?"

The room is silent but for the sound of heavy breathing.

There are three guards in the room, as expected. The sentry by the door inclines his head to his master. The other two do not move from their tasks. One has the boy's arms pinned over the back of the sofa. The other has apparently just finished securing the boy's ankles to one of the reinforced metal rings at the base of the closest wall. This is not the first time that an assassin or some other evil-doer has infiltrated Bruce's home. All of his staff is well-trained.

The boy himself, clothed again in the robe, though one shoulder is bared and the waist tie loose, goes completely limp. Despite his awkward position -- body twisted on the floor, legs and arms stretched out cruelly -- he does not struggle. His gaze locks avidly on Bruce's.

It's difficult to picture him as a potential assassin. The odds of Clark having picked up this particular child at this particular time due to a planned attack seem much too low. However, Bruce has learned that looks can be very deceiving, and all odds can be gamed.

Looking at the boy, his chest heaving from exertion and his neck and forehead slightly sheened with sweat, Bruce can remember -- vividly -- the taste of the boy's skin and the shape of the wonder in his eyes when he experienced (allegedly) his first shared orgasm at Bruce's hands. He remembers the smoothness of the boy's cheek against his bare fingers and sensitive palm. He remembers the awe and the strange _affection_ in the boy's voice.

Those things are separate, however. If this boy threatens the Mission, then he will die like the others.

Bruce cannot afford to feel regret.

"Batman!" the boy cries. His voice wavers, though his gaze stays sharp and strong. He does not attempt to free himself from his restraints. Good sense, or part of a strategy? "They were murdered! It wasn't an accident. They were _murdered_ , Batman. You have to _do_ something."

"What are you talking about?"

"My parents." And now the boy begins to cry, sobs too ragged and ugly to seem artful. "It was that guy talking to Pop Haly. It had to be. He _killed_ them. He's not allowed to do that. He's not--" The boy pauses to wipe his nose against his arm.

"Don't move," the guard securing his wrists cautions him, knowing that tears and mucus are a natural lubricant. At Bruce's nod, the man yanks the boy's arms down -- causing a quick, surprised gasp but nothing else -- and locks his restraints to his ankles, effectively hogtying him.

The boy's expression tightens with apprehension, but his eyes never leave Bruce's. "Please. It's what you do, isn't it? You catch the bad guys who disobey. My Mom always says you look after the whole world. Please help. You _have_ to."

They still can't completely rule out ill intentions, but Bruce has heard enough to make an inquiry. He taps his earpiece and says, simply, "Superman."

"Yes?" comes the immediate reply.

"What were the circumstances of the boy's parent's deaths? Was it an accident?"

Part of him itches to check the scene for himself, but he pushes it away. As much as their parents have trained them, he and Clark have also trained each other. He will trust his pseudo-brother on this, as he trusts so much of his life to him, knowing that their methods are sound. As Clark trusts him to direct Superman's actions only where it's important.

The line stays open. Bruce hears the static of super-fast wind and then the static of silence and then a short burst of sound -- surprised human voices. Then silence again.

It's a few seconds before a reply comes. "Hm."

"You'll have to be more specific," Bruce automatically snaps. He can hear Clark's smile.

"The rope's worn through, but my microscopic vision is picking up residue. It might be chemical."

"An acidic compound to simulate wear," Bruce surmises grimly.

"Yes, maybe."

"So it wasn't an accident."

"No, it wasn't." There is no trace of the smile anymore. Unbelievably, even after all these years, Clark has never been able to get over his inherent idealism. Every fresh disobedience makes him _angry_. "I'll find--"

"No," Bruce cuts in.

There is a pause.

"No?"

"I have someone else in mind for this case."

***

The boy works tirelessly, his time split evenly between following the Batman in his investigation and engaging in combat training under Bruce's tutelage. Once Dick is ready, Bruce allows him to take the lead on the Grayson case. It is no more than Bruce expects.

He remembers the years that he'd spent training under his adopted parents' guidance and instruction, learning to track down and punish the bottom-feeders of the world like the one who had murdered Thomas and Martha Wayne, the piece of scum who, in the original timestream, had gone uncaptured, sending Gotham City into a spiral of panic and crime. That hadn't happened here, thanks to his parents, and it never would.

Bruce remembers the satisfaction of his first successful hunt. Identifying a miscreant on paper is a thrill all its own, every fresh sign or clue a shot of pure adrenaline. And finally, the culmination is the best part -- actually feeling bones crack and seeing blood spray for himself.

It would be Dick's work that would bring his fallen parents to justice. Dick's satisfaction. Dick's vengeance.

They corner the scum at his home in a sumptuous apartment that speaks of decay and corruption. Dick chooses the twelve-inch blade, the weapon looking almost like a short-sword in his small hands. In addition to the strength of his rage, he has the easy grace of his acrobatic training, enhanced by the Batman's teachings.

He is magnificent.

It's over in less than three minutes. Dick makes sure Zucco knows the reason for his sentence before carrying it out efficiently. He cleans the blade as taught and stows it away. Then he looks down at the limp form at his feet, spoiling the expensive carpet with its filthy fluids. Following procedure again, he squats down and tests the vermin's neck and wrist for a pulse. Without looking at Bruce, he nods to himself, then stands. He does not speak.

This, now, is a crucial moment. Bruce knows this from when he went through the same thing himself, and when he watched Clark go through the same. Taking another life is traumatizing. It's frightening. It hurts. And yet it thrills as well. It is the most primal show of power one living being has over another.

In order to preserve life for all, it is necessary to take the lives of some. Dick must learn this.

Bruce puts his hand on the boy's shoulder. He remembers when his father had helped him through this at the age of fifteen. Dick is younger than he was then. It will be easier for him.

"Good work, Robin."

Dick jerks and looks up at him. "He's dead," he states.

"Yes. And he will never hurt anyone else again like he hurt your parents. You've avenged your mother and father, and more importantly, you've saved countless lives today."

"I-- I guess so."

Dick rubs his gauntlet against his tunic in an effort to clean it. His muscular strength had allowed him to completely penetrate Zucco's body with one heaving thrust, driving hilt-deep and bringing the boy mask-to-face with his enemy. No, not an enemy. Simply the pest he had come to exterminate. Zucco's last dying vision had been the glowering face of justice in the form of a weariless boy whose life he had so carelessly destroyed just a few short weeks ago.

Zucco's blood had welled out and stained Dick's gauntlets. As he wipes them on his tunic, the darkening red fluid on them smears over the bright living red of the fabric over his chest. Bruce catches his wrist lightly. "Leave it," he says. "Unless there's so much that it will affect your grip, it doesn't matter." He quirks a smile for the boy's benefit. "You wouldn't believe the amount of work it takes to get blood stains out of kevlar weave."

As he had intended, Dick lets out a surprised burst of laughter.

"I killed him." His voice is stronger now.

"Yes."

"He disobeyed."

"Yes."

"He deserved to die."

"That and more, but we aren't monsters. A clean death is enough."

Dick nods, acknowledging their humanity. He does not argue different for his personal case.

"I'm proud of you," Bruce tells him, the words slipping out of him in a well of pure emotion.

This time, the smile that stretches across the boy's face is wide and dazzling. It reminds Bruce of Clark, which is... disturbing, considering what Dick means to him and what Clark does not. It causes Bruce to turn away quickly.

"It's done. Let's go."

"Aw, don't be embarrassed." Small hands seize his arm and hang, yanking him almost off-balance. Bruce straightens quickly and glares down at the boy.

"I'm _not_ \--" He cuts himself off when he sees the impish look on Dick's face, completely unmarred by the domino mask.

Bruce stares for too long, and Dick's smile fades, the mood changing between them.

Since that first day, Bruce has not touched the boy outside of their training. For all this time, the case has been all that they both have lived on. But now, that case is closed.

With his bloody gauntlets, Dick takes hold of the edges of Bruce's cape. He stands on tiptoes and turns his face upward, his lips just barely parted in a clear entreaty. He's not tall enough to take what he's asking for. Neither is he -- quite -- brash enough to make it more than a request.

The boy is bold. Bruce has always liked that about him. In the past few weeks, he has impressed Bruce again and again with his tenacity, his intelligence, and his eagerness to learn. Today, he has proven himself a fit soldier. A fit... partner.

He cups the boy's face with his own oft-stained hands, and he bends down to taste.

***

"Batman!"

The wicked knives do not slow, but the superstrong bitch who wields them is distracted for that all-important moment, allowing Bruce to twist to the side and thus escape with only a flesh wound.

Robin leaps up nimbly to where they're battling atop the folded arms of Clark's half of the Guardians statue. He's proved time and again that heights are far from a concern to him, but rather a freedom. The bitch turns alertly to face the threat but hesitates at sight of the boy. Despite his earlier demonstration of his skill and willingness to fight, she obviously still has qualms over striking a child.

That is her mistake.

She's screaming with pain in the next fraction of a second. Bruce has no hope of breaking her skin without a jackhammer, but a batarang in her eye can't be ignored.

Robin deftly snags the lasso at her waist and throws it over her neck. Hanging on, he leaps over the edge, dragging her with him before she can concentrate enough to fly. It's a foolhardy move. As soon as the bitch regains control, Robin will be in danger. Batman curses himself for not using an explosive batarang instead of the plain one currently still lodged in the bitch's skull. Even a metahuman wouldn't survive having her head blown apart from the inside, would she? But Robin--

As she rights herself in the air, he fires a line and wraps the bitch's feet so that she is anchored at both ends. His instinct tells him that her lasso is magical and will hold her. His cable is a different matter, but he has the element of surprise. If they are lucky, they might break one of her legs. She is a formidably stubborn foe, however. Still streaming blood from her face, she dips in midair and yanks on the trailing end of the lariat. Bruce hears a cry from below and the impact of Robin's body against the unforgiving side of the statue.

"Robin!" It's not his own voice, but one almost as familiar to him.

There is a burst of green above them, and a body falls, limp but still conscious. The wielder of the power ring. Good. He had been second only to the flying bitch in power and command. Take them both out, and the resistance would fall apart.

Bruce doesn't see Clark's arrival, but he recognizes the shape and color of the blur that announces it, and he definitely recognizes the stench of burnt flesh. Funny. Meta or no, and no matter your race or gender or station in life, everyone smells the same when they die. There's probably something philosophical to say about that, but frankly, Bruce doesn't have the time for it right now.

Clark lands next to Bruce with Robin cradled in his arms. The boy grimaces but is already digging in his utility belt for a painkiller. He tosses it back dry, chewing with his teeth.

"I can still fight," he announces.

Bruce and Clark exchange proud smiles. "Good soldier," Bruce tells him and they face the enemy together.

It takes another seventeen minutes to slay the rest of the rebel force, including making short work of the two who have infiltrated the secret cavern holding the time bubble. Clark catches them before they have gotten far inside, frying them on the spot.

By the end of it all, Bruce's suit is in tatters and Robin's is none better. Their belts are empty and Bruce's muscles are sore like they haven't been for a very long time. They have both sustained injuries, though none that will be permanently debilitating, as far as Bruce can tell. Even Clark looks exhausted. The ragtag remnants of the Future Legion, who had fought for them under Mother's influence, gather uncertainly for several minutes before suddenly dispersing, as if waking up. Mother must be tired as well.

In the raw emptiness of their exhaustion, Dick suddenly lets out a loud whoop. He leaps into Bruce's arms, wrapping his legs around Bruce's waist and trusting Bruce to support him, which Bruce does. Just barely. Bloodstained face shining with delight, he seizes Bruce by the earpoints of his cowl and crushes their lips together. He tastes of ozone and blood. The kiss is brief and fierce. "We did it!" the boy yells, as he pulls the cowl back completely and grips his fingers in Bruce's hair. He shakes Bruce's head back and forth in his exuberance. "We beat them!"

Clark is laughing beside them. Bruce tries to keep his visage stern. He is still (mostly) in uniform, after all. But he fails miserably. "Stop that," he does manage to say. Dick lets go of his hair, but doesn't get down. Despite his weariness, Bruce does not mind the boy's weight. He is not able to show the same level or purity of joy that Dick does, but he is... _happy_ to share in it.

 _"My sons. Come to us."_ Mother's liquid voice fills his mind.

To Bruce's surprise, Dick starts in his arms and looks around. Mother rarely speaks to those outside the family. It is part of protecting the timestream.

_"Bring the boy."_

"Who is that?" Dick asks, putting a hand to his head in wonder. "She sounds so pretty."

Clark smiles, bright and sunny like he rarely has since growing up. Bruce isn't the only one who has benefited from 'Robin's' exuberant presence. "She's going to love to hear that from you directly."

"That's our mother," Bruce answers the boy. He sets him back down on the ground, then holds out his hand to Clark. "Let's go."

Clark clasps his forearm, Bruce mirroring the hold. "Do you want to ride or hold?" Clark asks the boy, offering his other hand. Bruce mentally rolls his eyes, but it is Clark's fancy to indulge the child. He tells Bruce it's his right as the 'fun uncle'.

"Ride!" Dick answers, and half-jumps, half-climbs onto Clark's back, his arms looped around Clark's neck. He whoops as Clark takes off, Bruce firm in his grip.

A minute later, they're at the closest transporter room. Then, momentarily, they're standing in a building on the moon.

Dick looks around at the unfamiliar surroundings. "Where are we?" he whispers, instinctively sensing that this is no place for ordinary mortals to tread. Seemingly unconsciously, he takes hold of Bruce's hand. Bruce leads the boy up the stairs to the main room, where Dick sighs in wonder at the gleam of the Earth and the glitter of stars outside the tall windows.

Hidden light sources brighten, and the shadows in the center of the vast room form into three figures, sitting at the round conference table.

"Welcome, sons," Father greets them. Pride shines on his normally severe face. His eyes spark with the lightning that gives him his name.

"So this is Dick Grayson," says their other Father, dark eyebrows raised in curiosity, his sardonic smile in place. Bruce will never forget the night he came to the alley to take Bruce away to this better life.

Mother's face, although showing some signs of fatigue from the battle, is as serene as ever. Her presence whispers across their minds, soothing and full of love and -- satisfaction? "We know a lot about you, young man."

"About me?" Dick squeaks, in a way that Bruce hasn't heard since the first week of their acquaintance. Dick's near-worship of 'the Batman' had quickly begun eroding once Bruce had taken him as his protégé. After they began sharing a bed, he had discarded it altogether, instead imitating Clark's tolerant teasing. Overall, Bruce prefers their current dynamic.

But it's still fun to see the boy wide-eyed and star-struck.

"You are a capable warrior and a young man of valor." Dick smiles goofily, obviously smitten.

"Before you swell up his head to rival the moon, Mother, why don't you tell us why you asked us to bring him?" Bruce never stands on ceremony with their parents. Mother, knowing this, gives him only a brief pressure of chastisement in his head, the equivalent of a swat on the backside. Bruce scowls when Clark grins at him, having noticed the exchange.

"Come," Mother commands, holding out her hand to Dick, who nearly trips in his haste to comply. The boy drops to his knees at her feet and stares up at her in adoration. Smiling indulgently, she places a hand on his dark head. "In the other time, Bruce, you and Clark were colleagues, but you had someone else at your side, someone who lived with you and loved you. He was a young circus boy who lost his parents to murder. You rescued him, Bruce. You trained him and gave his life purpose."

"You mean--?" Bruce glances quickly at Dick, who's staring, open-mouthed.

"Yes. We didn't tell you about him, because we weren't sure if you would meet again, here. Or if you met, if he would be... suitable. There were so many factors that could have caused him to turn out _wrong_. It would have been cruel to promise you a partner and then find out it was impossible."

Bruce... can't speak. This must be why his connection to the boy feels so real. So necessary.

"Some things shouldn't be changed," Clark says sagely, though his ear-splitting grin ruins the effect. "Like Lois and me. You two are meant to be together."

"Does that mean that I can stay?" Dick pipes up. Mother turns a benevolent look to him.

"Yes, child."

Dick looks completely boggled. Frowning, Bruce kneels beside the boy and tugs on his shoulder to turn him around.

"You were always welcome to stay with me, Robin. I hope you realized that much."

"I-- I knew you kind of liked to have me around, but this is-- This is so _big_. You and Superman... You're-- And I'm only me. A kid. You let me help for a while, but I always thought..."

Mother silences him with a graceful raising of her hand. "You saved my son's life today. From now on, you are one of us."

"Thank you. _Thank_ you." Dick looks close to tears. The next moment, he's launched himself into Mother's arms and is hugging her tightly. Mother is clearly startled, a rare look for her, and everyone gapes. Then, starting with Clark, they all break into laughter. Not even a bit abashed, Dick looks around at them all, grinning in pure joy. "Um," he hesitates, frowning at Mother. "So what should I call you?"

"How about Grandma?" Father suggests, and their other Father guffaws. Mother gives them both dirty looks.

"'Auntie Saturn' is acceptable. And they will be your Uncle Cosmic and Uncle Lightning."

"Wow. Okay."

"And you can stay as long as you like," Bruce says firmly.

This time, he's the one with an armful of young boy. Aggressive lips cover his, and small hands take possession of his hair. What _is_ his fascination with turning Bruce bald?

"I'll never want to leave," Dick says between kisses. "Never. Never. Never." Dick hugs him furiously. "I love you."

Bruce freezes. Even though it seems like a long time since Bruce has felt complete without this bright shadow at his side, he's never dared to say the words to his young partner. Over Dick's shoulder, Bruce sees Clark smirk and wave his hand in a 'Go on!' gesture. Mother and Father and Father are watching as well, all with benign (and amused) smiles. There is no escape.

Bruce clears his throat. "I--" He hugs Dick close so he can speak into his shoulder, muffling his answer. "I love you, too."

Dick pulls back to look up at him, his face shining with fervent passion. "We'll be together forever and ever. We'll make _everyone_ obey. We'll kill _all_ the bad guys. Everything's going to be _perfect_."

"Yes," Bruce agrees, exhilarated by the boy's enthusiasm. " _Yes_."

"Well said," Father pronounces. He applauds, and Clark and Mother and Father join in, laughing. Dick laughs with them. Bruce has never felt this complete. This _certain_. He catches Clark's eyes, and they share an understanding.

This is the way things are supposed to be.

  
END.

  
_"In Greek mythology, Ganymede (Greek: Γανυμήδης, Ganymēdēs) is a divine hero whose homeland was Troy. Homer describes Ganymede as the most beautiful of mortals. In the best-known myth, he is abducted by Zeus, in the form of an eagle, to serve as cup-bearer in Olympus. ... In Olympus, Zeus granted him eternal youth and immortality ..."_ (from [Wikipedia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ganymede_\(mythology\)))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this story, you might try these:  
> [Boys Hostage](http://archiveofourown.org/works/514247) (Batman), by kuonji  
> [We Sort Too Soon](http://archiveofourown.org/works/253741) (Harry Potter), by kuonji  
> [Virgin Flight](http://sga-flashfic.livejournal.com/353741.html) (Stargate Atlantis), by kuonji  
> [Broken Wings](http://jij.livejournal.com/543.html), by jij  
> [In These Golden Days](http://teland.com/inthesegolden.html), by Te  
> [Lagrangian Mechanics](http://www.jlaunlimited.com/eFiction1.1/viewstory.php?sid=3275) (Batman), by Marcelo


End file.
